


Inside

by mrstater



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Pre-Canon, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 19:08:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrstater/pseuds/mrstater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the bedchamber, Lynesse discovers that Ser Jorah is not at all what she expected during the revels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inside

Ser Jorah—no, just Jorah, now, Lynesse amended; they were far too intimate for such formalities, and anyway she was alone with him now—had been so deep in his cups during the revels that followed his glorious tournament victory, that she—having imbibed rather a lot herself—had not imagined that bedding him would be the stuff of songs. From the way he’d swayed a little in his seat when she kissed him at the feast, and stumbled up the narrow staircase of the inn to his room, his big hand clammy as it clutched hers, her own befuddled mind produced images of fumbling with the closures of her gown and laces of her stays, perhaps not bothering to undress her at all but simply shoving up her skirt and petticoats, of clumsy pawing at her breasts and sloppy kisses. An instant of discomfort as he entered her, followed by a few grunting thrusts of his hips, culminating in untidiness. That was how it had been with other men, at other feasts, and she expected no more from this bear of a knight to whom she had granted her favor in a fit of madness.  
  
Quite unexpectedly, however, the privacy of the bedchamber seemed to have a sobering effect on _this_ knight. Jorah’s kisses grew more deliberate, more _delicate_ , his tongue tracing the insides of her lips, gliding with hers…sucking at her nipple. When had he unlaced her bodice? His beard scratched the sensitive skin of her breasts, but that was a sweet sensation, too, as was the brush of his fingers over the patch of coarse hair between her thighs.  
  
Lynesse tensed reflexively, but Jorah slipped one finger inside her with such ease—and such ecstasy—that she realized how wet she was for him, and reached her own hand down to draw his away.  
  
“I want more of you than that,” she told him, and Jorah raised his head from her breasts, his dark eyes bleary with drunkenness—on love, not wine, she thought—but he did not acquiesce to her bidding just yet. He twined his fingers with hers, caging her hand over her head on the feather tick, but the other resumed its work between her folds, two fingers this time. Lynesse uttered a most unladylike word at his touch, but this only seemed to encourage Jorah further; he grinned as the heel of his hand applied a gentle pressure between her thighs. His smile improved his looks, Lynesse thought, but as she cried out she found she’d never cared less for a handsome lover.  
  
And love was the only word to describe what Jorah did—what _she_ did, with him—as she parted her thighs and wrapped her legs around his bare waist, digging her heels into the small of his back—the fitted just perfectly into the notches of his hips, as if the gods had formed him for her. He lasted a long time, so much longer than she would have thought his state would have allowed, and amid the wordless sounds of his pleasure he said her name and called her his queen, and then she was lost.  
  
When he had spent himself inside her, he did not roll away, as other men had. He remained sheathed in her, flaccid, as he pressed languid kisses or loving whispers to her mouth, along her jaw and throat, tasting the hollow with his tongue, until his head lay pillowed in the valley of her breasts and, blanketing her with his warm weight, he fell asleep.  
  
When they woke—both of them, though Lynesse could not recall when she had fallen asleep—he was still in her, hard again. And she was ready to love him.


End file.
